


Turn Again; Glance Back

by word_docs_and_willowboughs



Series: Four Thousand Winter Thought She Not Too Long [5]
Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Drunk (non-explicit) sex, Dubious Consent, F/F, Pretty Much Everyone's A Lady AU, Referenced abusive parenting, Rule 63, The Author Has Regrets, This is Not Good & the most messed up thing I've posted here, Toxic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/word_docs_and_willowboughs/pseuds/word_docs_and_willowboughs
Summary: In the AU Where Pretty Much Everyone Is A Lady. Lymond is forced to briefly return to the Lennoxes after being turned back from Midculter prior to Game of Kings, and has to cut a deal with Margaret Douglas to earn her place back.
Relationships: Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny/Margaret Douglas
Series: Four Thousand Winter Thought She Not Too Long [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585696
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sshysmm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/gifts).

> The first chapter is SFW but there is very loosely described sex in the second chapter (like, about canon level of "loose description"), and in general this relationship is an extremely unhealthy one (and at this point more of an... uncomfortable, manipulative arrangement), so mind the tags.
> 
> Based on a long-ago far-away prompt from sshysmm

There was no snow on the ground and no hint of any on the way when Frances Crawford fled the home of the Earl of Lennox on a stolen horse. It did not come so suddenly as her escape had, but fell subtly at first and built on itself. By the time the young woman returned three days later, in the dead of night, the winter was a bulwark against her unexpected arrival, and the wind made a concerted effort to drive her back. It was her sheer stubbornness that meant that the Countess of Lennox was woken by her maid, who had heard Crawford of Lymond rapping at the door. Informed by the ire her mistress had cast on the woman in her brief absence, the maid hadn’t opened it; with Margaret wide awake and appraised of the situation, no attempt was made to change that.  
“Not yet,” was the word on the woman’s lips as she rose to peer down through the curtain, “I want to watch.”

———

Margaret stepped away from the window only for as long as it took her to put on a robe, deep crimson that dragged along the floor behind her, and the delicate slippers that were new from her husband. Even so, she stood a little ways back from the glass to avoid the chill when she drew the heavy, dark drapes to one side just enough for a good glimpse of the outside. From her vantage, she could see their great front door, and a figure in a deep green cloak beating her fist against it, strands of blond hair blown about her face from the wind whose whistle the windowpanes could not wholly silence. For longer than was reasonable, longer than was logical, she did not stop; Margaret had not marked the time, but it must have been brutal work to continue of her attempts because she slumped forward briefly against the wood, wether from exhaustion or discouragement. 

When it could be plainly seen that Frances had stepped staggering back from the door, Margaret’s interest grew keen. Surely now she would retreat, run off somewhere else again and prove both cowardice and lack of care. Instead she leaned back against the stone which framed the great wooden door and looked upwards, pulling her cloak tighter. Margaret waited, unable to close the curtain for fear of missing the moment when she would snap and take flight. Instead she watched her drop to sitting in spite of the snow which had blown its way onto the step, and press herself into the corner beneath the overhang. Unable to glimpse her features, the misery in the way she held herself and the sheer fatalism of her choice told Margaret all she needed to know that Frances had well and truly tethered herself to this place, to her; that, she thought, was enough to earn some charity. 

“Will you let her in, Lady Lennox?” asked the servant who stood a little behind her, keeping the distance respectful.  
“Wait until I tell you,” Margaret intoned, “But light the hearth in the parlor, will you?” Some charity; not too much. 

———

Twenty minutes later, Margaret had settled herself in a large chair in the aforementioned parlor, watching the fire crackle merrily utterly free of concern. When she finally allowed a servant to open the door, she rose and mussed her hair quickly, enough to feign having just awakened, though of course she had no intention of making herself unattractive. Hearing the heavy wood creaking closed, she went after the one sent to open it and found Frances Crawford fairly shaking with cold inside, dripping snow which was quickly melting to sleet. Her cheeks were flushed a deep red, and her lips were pale approaching a touch of blue; most of all, though, Margaret noticed the bleak expression which she did not bother to conceal on Margaret’s arrival. She held her head high, yet, but the understanding of her own defeat was plain.  
“Frances,” she said, “Where have you been? What’s happened?” Frances took several deep breaths, until their shaking grew steadier, before posing a question of her own.  
“You told me that you did not know what my family thought of my past, did you not?” Margaret nodded slowly, brow furrowed. It had been a mistake on her part, she’d known already, to let Frances live with a sliver of hope for her own redemption, which Margaret knew very well was quite impossible. The thought that she might act on it, which dawned on her now, had never crossed her mind. “I left to find out.”  
“Without telling me.” Margaret allowed a seriousness into her town, but for the moment avoided severity. “You ran off in the night like a fugitive.” 

Frances bit her lip.  
“I did.”  
“Why?”  
“May I come in?” The quaver had returned to the young woman’s voice even in her defiance. As Margaret inspected her more closely, she realized that Frances had been crying; at first she’d thought it was snow melting from her lashes, but the pink rimming her eyes and the way her face still held a shadow of anguish were things that frost turning to water could not create. The fragility of the situation was more apparent than ever, she understood. Whatever Frances had thought, she could not be allowed to take such fancies into her head again.  
“Will you stay, if you do? I need you to promise me that.” With those words, and Frances’s hesitation, Margaret felt the pressure of her anger pushing against her composure, the gentleness of her voice fraying, and blurted, “Do you know how I’ve felt these last days? Do you know what it did to me, this… betrayal?” 

She was alone. Matthew had gone, and until she was watching the girl huddling in on herself in the snow, Margaret had felt, for the first time in years, as if her grip on a power she had grown familiar with was lost entirely. Frances Crawford had left and Margaret, who did not love her, not really, had nearly come unmoored. Her tone seemed to startle the girl, because she said far too quickly,  
“Yes, I’ll stay,” in a way that made Margaret vanish the bitterness in her heart under a perfect sheen of worry; she took Frances’s hands in hers, and Frances almost cringed at the touch.  
“You’re freezing,” she said, “You must come sit by the hearth. We’ll warm you up, yes? The fire’s lit already.” Margaret saw Frances teetering on the edge of acceptance, practically heard her curse herself in her own mind, and barely contained a smile when she broke. Her shoulders sagged, she let out a breath, and nodded wordlessly. The cloak was pulled from her shoulders and handed delicately to the serving girl who hovered just behind her like a shadow, and then Margaret’s hand was draped around Frances’s back, guiding her where she wanted. 

———

She settled the pair of them in front of the hearth, where the soft furs had been laid out on the floor so that they could be close, and called for blankets. Cautiously, watching Frances’s face as she did so, she added,  
“And we’ll have hippocras also.” A crease formed between Frances’s eyebrows at the suggestion of drink, and Margaret folded a hand over hers on the floor where she sat with her legs folded under her still-damp skirts. To ask her to change them was, for the moment, far too audacious and Margaret knew it. “It will warm you; I have no ill intentions.”  
“You never do,” said Frances dully, and Margaret smiled as pleasantly as the welcoming heat of the hearth, closed mouthed and confident. She told the truth; as far as that was concerned she wanted nothing more than to ease the tension which possessed the girl, perhaps to dim the haunted look in her eyes, if Frances was inclined to take that path herself. That, and to loosen her tongue a little. Frances had many skills, but gauging her own relationship with alcohol had never been one of them; even so, it was her choice in the end, wasn’t it? Margaret waited in silence a while before murmuring,  
“You did well in returning, Frances. But you must tell me what happened…” Beside her, the girl swallowed, and refused resolutely to look at her.  
“‘Must’ is a strong word, Lady Lennox. I will tell you that I cannot go back.” 

It was clear she would not say more on the matter just yet, and so Margaret was grateful when, along with the heavy woolen blankets the serving girl laid before them, a decanter and a pair of cups were set on the small table beside the chair Margaret had lately occupied awaiting Frances’s entry. As soon as it was possible to do so, one of the blankets was draped over Frances’s shoulders, and a half-smile was proffered with it as she clutched the edges as is they would save her life and drew the thick fabric around herself. The wheat-gold curls, no longer bleached lighter with summer sun, were long again now, and she had not bothered to tie them back, so Margaret made the advance of pushing a few damp ones away from her face. Something shifted in Frances’s gaze, which drifted towards the firelight as though mesmerized, but she did not resist. She seemed entirely too tired to object to kindness, however superficial.

Margaret waited a while, and calculated carefully before she asked,  
“Will you drink with me a little? You are still cold.” Again, Frances hesitated — she must cure her of that, and quickly, or larger doubts might creep in all too quickly. Evidently Frances could be fickle, which was a problem in need of an expedient solution; it was a relief when again she bent, and said,  
“Yes.” Rising gracefully to her feet as her robe swirled about her a and she let it fall open a little ways to show more of her chemise’s low neckline, Margaret poured steadily, a cup for each of them, and returned with each balanced. There was a great deal of consideration before Frances raised the cup to her lips, so Margaret drank first, and smiled encouragingly. Then once more, half in defeat and half acceptance, Frances followed suit as Margaret savored the spiced wine on her tongue and tried not to stare at the way the firelight painted the girl’s skin rosy and her hair radiant at the edges like an angel, her head bowed. Drinking, she looked contemplative and almost prayerful, as though Margaret had offered her the Host. She let herself bask momentarily in satisfaction; she had provided much to make up for the weather and the rough journey, and she could tell already that it was appreciated as a sense of security mounted in her.

In the end, the girl surprised her once more. Despite having waited so long, once she made up her mind, Frances drank far too quickly, still shivering beneath the blankets while Margaret watched. She had no particular goal to get her terribly drunk, but made no effort to prevent over-indulgence in spite of knowing how easily the sweet, unwatered wine went down. Her companion was no more a precocious sixteen, and now eminently capable of looking after herself. Frances certainly seemed to think that was the case, having struck out on her own. As Margaret only intended to demand contrition and explanation, however, she watched with approval as the young woman began to sink into the glow of firelight, the fine wool wrapped tightly about her. That Frances had relaxed a little, and did not flinch when Margaret touched her face lightly with the back of her hand to feel the heat in her cheeks, convinced her that she might be pliant enough to speak.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, gentle, firm and hiding flawlessly the true, steely desire to demand beneath the decades of practiced and upright decorum. “What on earth did you think you were going to accomplish?” Frances laughed darkly.  
“Imagine, if you will, a fantasy I had: that I was raised in a family, however hateful the patriarch, with a mother who favored me and a brother who worried, the pair of them indulgent in my desire for a wider world. I believed that such an arrangement would... allow me enough time to explain myself, if only I could enter my old sanctum again. I went to beg forgiveness and... now I am here.” The last words were full of regret, but also a deep confusion; that, Margaret thought, could prove a foothold.  
“I trust my prediction was accurate?” Margaret asked, her tone and bearing radiating sympathy still as she leaned towards Frances, whose gaze was growing dull as she drank again, deeply. She was far from sober, wallowing in sadness and shame, and not enjoying herself in the slightest — good, for the moment. It left something to build from. “Deliberate or not, you did hurt them terribly; did you honestly expect them to take you back after all they believe you’ve done? All you did do?”

“That,” said Frances, “would be why I called it a fantasy. My father...” she swallowed thickly; the blue eyes glazed with drink now shone with tears held back as well. “My father answered, and said if I came closer he’d set the dogs on me, and have me whipped if I was caught. I...” Margaret offered the handkerchief she thought she might need, and though Frances took it, she simply blinked the tears back and made no use of the cloth. “I was a fool.”  
“Only naive,” said Margaret. “Come here.” She motioned Frances closer and guided her to rest her head on her shoulder. “You know better now; it was nothing but a lesson. He has never been the kindest of teachers.” She settled herself more comfortably and sighed, confident now that the girl leaning on her was secure. Even if she was at her lowest now, she knew Margaret was the only reason she wasn’t alone and freezing; no matter what she thought or felt, she didn’t resist — it would not be so difficult as Margaret feared, she thought, to have Frances back if only she could achieve what was needed before Matthew returned.

It was only after a time to let Frances breathe, and pretend the tears had not begun to fall against her will, before she probed farther.  
“I only want to know,” said Margaret, “That you do not fault me for this. I never intended to do anything more than let you down gently from the truth about your family… I’d no idea you would do something like this if I failed to assure you they must despise you…”  
“No,” said Frances, though it sounded automatic and forced. “No. I may rail against the late King Henry for my sentence and the French for my injury, but you are right that I can blame nothing but my own naïveté for this hope. There is something with family, though... I thought I was going to meet my mother again at last, and Agamemnon took the knife to me instead, all for the good of the nation.” Margaret sat straighter, her brow furrowed.  
“What do you mean?” The blue eyes which had met hers were suddenly cast down, the head declined and glowing golden in the rosy firelight.  
“Evidently, I can be sacrificed. If Eloise were alive and I had done nothing to help or hurt you, I think it would be much the same.”  
“If he has cast you out,” Margaret murmured, “I’ll take you up again. Matthew need not know you ever left. Only promise me you’ll be more careful.” After an aching pause, Frances shut her eyes entirely, retreating further.  
“Lady Lennox, am I a kept woman?”  
“You sought your alternative,” said Margaret frankly. “Did you find it? You may shape yourself as you will here; neither my husband nor I has been unkind in harboring you. Think what you will of it, but I’ll never forgive you if you kill yourself trying to strike out to nowhere all alone.”

“You know,” said Frances in a voice faraway and detached, “You never answer my questions.”  
“What? Ask me again, then.” The girl scrutinized her, and the gravity of her expression was terribly familiar, as was the ethereal quality the fire lent her; there was always something indomitable in her eyes, a certainty of some secret Margaret had not been party to since she had known her, and it made her captivating. Frances Crawford was nearly destroyed, and she was gorgeous in tatters as she was when she was whole, especially with the words she spoke now, despite the tonelessness.  
“Very well; do you require payment from me, for you to take me up?” That night, she’d not intended to ask, but it shifted in an instant looking her over. The opportunity was obvious; Frances assumed, and who was Margaret to correct her, when she might take what she wanted — no, deserved? Margaret bit her lip, and after some consideration, lifted Frances’s chin to meet her eyes.  
“I should like an apology,” she said.  
“Is that all?” Margaret did not reply, but her face, so close to Frances’s, must have revealed something, for a moment later, she was caught in an exquisite kiss. As she sank into it and Frances drew Margaret’s body to hers, she could nearly feel the practice in her gestures, and just now was grateful for their shared experience. Even less than sober and caught up in vague, half-hidden devastation, Frances made every bit of contact wonderful, the questions of wether she was trying or if there was real emotion in it inconsequential. 

She barely noticed the shift when Frances began to lean forward and lay her down among the strewn cushions and furs, lost in the warmth of the fire and the other woman’s mouth. Breathless at the breaking of the kiss, she found herself on her back and began to murmur that they ought to move, but the press of their bodies together as Frances slipped down a little ways and bowed her head, turning her attentions to Margaret’s neck, made her go silent and still for a moment. The idea of discovery was far in the back of her mind as soon as she was certain that Frances was taking care not to bruise her, and to lose herself did not seem so terrible a thing. It was only when Margaret made the effort to reach around and try to work open the kirtle laces at the girl’s back that she stopped, reminded of pure logic.

“Wait,” she said, and Frances sat back on her knees, jarringly unsmiling, maybe disinterested.  
“For what? Do convenience and ease worry you, or are you afraid another tryst might offend my delicate countenance?” The second phrase was plainly sarcastic, and spelled out Frances’s answer to her own question: that the latter was no concern of Margaret’s. Wether or not it was true, of course Margaret could not permit such an accusation without rebuttal.  
“It’s only that my bedchamber might be more comfortable. You know that I care for you.” Frances simply stood, and Margaret followed.  
“In truth,” Frances answered, and took Margaret’s hands in hers with a nod to the door, “I do not. No matter; hie we hence, to do as you see fit.”

Margaret did not move. Instead, she asked rather sharply,  
“Do you want to?” moved by a sudden desire to know that she would say it if Margaret asked. Frances shrugged an answer.  
“I do regret going back to Midculter.”  
“You don’t answer my questions either. Not honestly.”  
“Lady Lennox, there is no need for the pretense of sympathy,” Frances said flatly. “You don’t want honesty. You want an apology. At present, so do I; if you call again when I’m sober perhaps I shall be ungrateful again.” When she spoke, Margaret tried to keep plain satisfaction from her voice, for the sake of politeness.  
“Don’t sulk, then, or pity yourself. Forget this little... excursion and I’ll be all Christian forgiveness.”  
“It is among the sins I’ve set behind me,” Frances conceded, and this time Margaret nodded. “Better to think on those which yet lie ahead.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lymond makes good on the promise to get back in Margaret's good graces, grudgingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bit is the 'M' rating, NSFW but loosely described at about the level of canon, alcohol and manipulation is involved, be careful.

They went up without speaking, Frances almost somber, but when the door to Margaret’s room had closed behind them, near instantly she was as she had been before, and for the moment Margaret closed her eyes rather than do something so pathetic as to ask for a smile. Nimble hands divesting her of her robe and shawl were more than sufficient, and the awkward pause that it took to aid Frances in stripping to her chemise too was remedied when Frances halfway knelt to sweep Margaret into her arms like a bride. Margaret’s almost girlish anticipation and Frances’s unobtrusive silence as she laid her on the bed once again nearly banished all thoughts of Midculter from Margaret’s mind, though she could tell that they remained for her companion. 

From time to time between kisses and heavy breaths a shade of light misery crossed Frances’s face, and rather than repulsion Margaret felt almost proud. It told her that the girl — she wasn’t really a girl, Margaret supposed, but what did it matter? — the girl had learned her place well. Perhaps that was why she felt no need to speak drawing Margaret’s shift over her head, and looked at her without the slightest change in expression. She didn’t seem terribly disappointed with it all, though, merely forlorn, so Margaret could only imagine that Frances simply grieved the day she’d left here, and that was right. The sympathy Frances had mocked her for was nonexistent, as it had been all along. As Frances settled herself between Margaret’s legs and laid her mouth to her skin where she’d dropped off, just under her collarbone, the feeling of contact was only augmented by satisfaction, and her own understanding. To have run off had been a stupid mistake, and if she paid for it, Margaret’s particular price meant Frances would now reap some reward for having returned; if a little guilt lingered over leaving that was for the best.

When Frances began a gradual path downwards with her kisses, that ceased to matter as well. Gone was the snow, the muddy hem of her dress, the cheeks reddened with cold: nothing remained but the golden hair where Margaret’s hands were tangled and encouraging, the pale lashes halfway hiding blue eyes which failed to meet Margaret’s, the whispering of sheets and words. A more pleasant past was easy to recall in the face of this almost ritual passion, and Margaret slipped into it enough that even afterwards, dizzy and blissful, she could see, or imagine, a mirrored contentment in Frances’s eyes. Margaret drew her close and kissed her deeply, and for once turned the pair of them so that she was over Frances, moving with more excitement than languor. She coaxed a soft sound from the otherwise quiet girl, and felt a hand pressed against where her own moved under the shift to bring her closer, disregarding the tension which seemed out of place in favor of the sudden nearness she was allowed. 

As ever, it was profoundly distracting: to focus on Frances’s face which had let want creep into cracks in the stoic expression made Margaret’s chest swell with pride. A memory of how she’d looked the first time she’d had her — here, nearly three years before — her face open with eagerness and curiosity, made a brief sense of regret flit through her mind, that Frances had ever thought to close herself off to Margaret to begin with. But no more; she was finished with that. Now, Frances was lovely beneath her with her hair fanned out and cheeks flushed, though she did not afford her much more than a harsh, beautiful gasp and a sudden shudder, her eyes shut as she bit her lower lip. It did not matter as she draped a leg over Margaret’s to hold her close and breathed an exhausted kiss into her mouth in a way she was certain it would never have occurred to Matthew to do. Left stunned by her charms, Margaret had been so undone, and so determined to undo the girl that when Frances looked at her with eyes half-lidded and murmured,  
“I’m sorry,” she had to ask what for. 

Amends had been made for that night, and Frances had paid her due to Margaret’s satisfaction; that was certain. But some warmth that was beyond the purely physical stayed with Margaret, so when Frances sat up, making to leave and asking where it was she ought to stay, Margaret took her hand.   
“Here,” she said, “Just for tonight. I don’t want you alone.” Frances pursed her lips and did not look at her. Then she laid down facing away from Margaret, but when the other woman turned on her side and pressed her front to Frances’s back, she did not object. Margaret’s cheek brushed Frances’s hair, her neck, and she could smell firewood and hypocras and her all over them both. A definite sense of connection which marked her as belonging with, and to, that household had fallen over the girl in her arms as soft an unobtrusive as a silk sheet, and in her mind Margaret drew it around her as she lay there. Soon enough Frances lost the will to blink sleep away in the face of the late hour, the wine, and the embrace; it was only after that Margaret let herself drop off as well. She might trust Frances again in time, but for the moment, it was best to have her close at hand.


End file.
